


significant changes in depth

by StripySock



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box, Vignette, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: "If I'm not your brother," Vincent says, against the tender skin of Anton's wrist, "then really what am I?""We never said that," Anton says, all true history set aside, rewritten it seems. "You were always my brother."
Relationships: Vincent Freeman/Anton Freeman
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	significant changes in depth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).



> I've been waiting to write this for ages. With all due thanks to asuralucier for her help and encouragement - any and all mistakes remain are my own. I hope you enjoy ictus, and that 2021 is a superb year for you

Vincent's dreamt of drowning since he was six. He remembers that later, in the tight cradle of space. 

If he'd been born a hundred years earlier, a bearded man in a patched sleeve jacket might've lain him back on a couch and told him he wasn't dreaming of the sea, he was dreaming of the womb, the inevitable, eternal regression to the place of comfort, the first time he'd ever known water. But even as a child he wouldn't have believed in a voluntary return to the cramped confines of safety. 

~~

Anton's skin tastes clean under his tongue, nothing but salt and water, cold for a second then warming, flushed and ready. Every mechanism in Anton's body is perfect, Vincent can almost feel the vasodilation of Anton's vessels underneath his skin, like something in him responds automatically to Vincent's presence, to the touch of his mouth, however unwillingly. Under the touch of Vincent's hand, his arm has goosepimpled into life; a warning bristle, a welcome, even as Anton tenses, fingers digging into Vincent's neck as though he could stop Vincent’s faulty heart just by thinking.

Underneath Vincent's back, the pebbles dig in, a rounded one curves his spine away from the shore up towards Anton, who is poised on top as if he isn't sure whether he should strike a killing blow with the stone he holds in his hand. Vincent's been pinned like this countless times by Anton over the years, ever since they turned eight and ten and Anton grew taller, flourishing under the laser light of their father's regard. Vincent used to fight, sink his teeth into Anton's arm, his hand, furious with the humiliation of it, shame a potent motivator in his struggle. It took years to learn, but it's easier to lie back and watch someone else's struggle, someone else's failure.

Anton's been pushed to the back of Vincent’s mind for the longest time. There is now no room for ancient sibling rivalry inside him, space has expanded to fill every thought he has to offer. When he sleeps at night, curled up tight in the security of Jerome Morrow's DNA, Vincent might still dream, but when he awakes, he settles on his genetic shield more firmly, tilts his chin to look at the rockets above, puts aside the fear of ruin, the fear of shame, and considers only the stars. If the shared blood that fills his veins uneasily stirs, that it is of no matter to him. He's become someone else, the person he should've been. The salt dreams and sand defeat belong to someone else.

"Father cried when you left," Anton says, shreds of some righteous fury still there, as he straddles Vincent's thighs and leans close enough that all Vincent can see are his eyes and a little slice of nose.

"Fancy him crying over defective spermatoza," Vincent says, the bitter words a reflex, a long ingrained response to the thought that he should call them, let them know he was alive.

"Well like you, that one swam fast enough," Anton replies.

Vincent is still damp from the sea, he's uncomfortably aware now of their nakedness, of the way that Anton leans low over him as though he wants to shut out the moon, the way that he turns his head to hide his face. From waist down, Vincent can't tell the difference between them, an unfortunate genetic similarity that the good doctor would've been delighted to see. In 18 hours he'll never see Anton again, in 18 hours he'll have stripped the last of a disappointing, disappointed family from him. 

There are no seas in space; he's won the final race, he should stand up and walk away. That he remains here pinned by the weight of expectation and of a brother who can't let go, is a fresh, disappointing testament to his weakness.

It's too easy to turn his head to the side, to again taste the salt-skin that isn't his own. To flick his tongue against Anton's arm, to feel Anton shudder above him. "If I'm not your brother," Vincent says, against the tender skin of Anton's wrist, "then really what am I?"

"We, _I_ never said that," Anton says, all true history set aside. "You were always my brother." The protestation is trite, futile, standing as it does against the years of silence. Vincent opens his mouth against Anton, resists the urge to bite down with his teeth and let the blood they share run out along the ground.

"If that was true," Vincent says, weary all of a sudden, tired to the bone from the fight to the shore. "Then you would have called me."

Anton says, almost inaudibly, "The first time your name came up on the computer as the perpetrator, I refused it. I deleted you from the system. Doesn't that count?"

"Did you believe," Vincent says, a little puff of air into the night. "That I might have done it. That a defective like me might've felled the barriers from within, killed a man like that, with hands like these?" He flexes his fingers, curls them around the skin of Anton’s waist, thumb pressed in against the meagre flesh.

"Yes," Anton says. Echo of their father, never admit you don’t know an answer.

"You never knew me did you?" Vincent says, more from habit than any real belief.He has played something very like this scene before in his head.. It's easier to believe his family never saw the real him after all, than that they did and still watched him leave. "I'd never have killed him."

The answer from Anton is only half in his words. "Yes you would have. If he'd found you. You'd have climbed over his broken body if it took you a foot closer to space. You even lie to yourself don't you?" He's closer now, like he can’t hold himself up any longer. The shape of his head blocks out the stars, fingers buried in the sand next to Vincent's head. Like this he's impossible to read. From anyone else the salty droplets might have been tears, but Vincent knows what the sea tastes like.

Anton’s easy to roll, weak from the long haul from shore, the longer haul back. So easy to make defensive that it’s almost pitiful. They’re weak together really, Vincent’s near the end of his strength, the last dribble of it is going on making a show. If Anton pushed back now, he’d be done for. 

Anton doesn’t. 

“If I’m a liar,” Vincent says, “so are you. Never had a brother at the academy did you? Little nuclear family, wth tiny nuclear dreams.” His arms give out, suddenly, without warning, they’ve been shaking for a long time, and he collapses, unwillingly, on top of Anton’s warm, living body.

There are fine tremors running throughout Vincent’s body, he can feel them reflected in Anton’s, the inevitable result of muscles pushed too far. This close he can see the way that Anton’s chewed his lip until it’s bled, like a bonfire of doubt has raged through him. Digs his fingers into the sand, beside Anton’s arm, close enough that there’s not a hairsbreadth between them.

“You chose to leave,” Anton says. “Choose it again.” Anton moves, deliberate this time, hard and hot between them, and the look in his eyes is mad, implacable, like he believes that somehow with this he’s won, like this is the challenge Vincent will run from.

When Vincent kisses Anton, it feels almost exactly like the click of the garden door behind him the first time he left - an irrevocable truncation of an expected narrative. Anton’s mouth is disbelieving beneath his, a little open as though to taunt him again, the shape of his lips thin and hard, even at the same time that he pushes his hips up a little, solid and hard between them both. Vincent edges his hand that little bit closer until they touch completely, hand to rib, mouth to mouth, instinctive push of his thigh between Anton’s. Vincent feels starved for air, like he’s fought so long for so little, has to make do with the disbelieving puff of it that Anton lets go of.

Anton’s hand lingers for the briefest of seconds on Vincent’s jaw, a curious trail of his fingers, cupping it for a fleeting second, before he curves his hand around Vincent’s neck. Brings Vincent in closer, still a taunt, a dare, before this time he kisses him first, brief hard press of his mouth, before he returns, slower, tongue pressing in. Vincent’s still tense, like this is all a game, like at any second Anton’ll call foul play, that Vincent cheated by beginning this at all. Even the hand he gets into Vincent’s hair to bring him closer, hold him nearer is too painful to be a sign of surrender.

Vincent’s never done this before. He’d die a thousand times over before he ever admitted it, of course, but it’s true. The furthest he’d ever gone with anyone before Irene was seven minutes in heaven with a girl who couldn’t parse his genetic profile off the traces of saliva they’d shared. That’s not a concern with Anton, who has known him from every pitiful moment through now to every triumph, who is turning his head just a little to kiss, to hold him against him, fixes his hand on his neck to hold him there while he kisses properly. He’s hard, aching, an improbable result of the evening, but somehow he’s curled a leg around Anton, spreading him wide against the sand as he rocks against him.

Anton isn’t still or easy, his hand cradles Vincent’s skull, tangled into the little that’s left of his hair, he’s had it shorn ready for the touch of the helmet against his skull. The touch of Anton’s fingers is familiar, even if the only other times he’s ever touched have been in anger. Perhaps this is anger still, Vincent has given up on knowing. Doesn’t dig deeper than the surface when Anton kisses him again, bends Vincent’s knee until it feels like it will break in half, to pin it wide across his body. If it were anybody else he’d feel helpless. But it’s Anton and he’s already won.

“What does it feel like?” Vincent whispers. “Being wanted?”

Anton doesn't reply, won’t let him rest in peace or take anything for granted, a dark mirror that’s always reflected the fact that Vincent has never been enough for anyone. Not for Anton, for their parents, or for Vincent himself. Anton demands more now, open and hungry, scores nails down Vincent’s skin, pulls him down so hard that somewhere, in some other universe, the frail person who Vincent should have been, snaps like dry twigs under his hands. This Vincent fights back, thrusts his cock against Anton’s stomach, and ignores the dry rasp of disbelief from Anton’s throat, slips down his body, shoulders braced by years of training to hold back the surge of Anton’s body as he finally sucks his cock.

Vincent’s spent a lot of years, very precisely tailoring his memories, curating the inside of his head until his dedication feels instinctive rather than cultivated. It’s not that he’s less human, he’s just not let himself leave space for this, for what it feels like to be a person, to want or to give. To have Anton’s hand in his hair, the startled surge of his hips nearly choking him. Vincent can’t even bring himself to laugh at the lack of self control that Anton’s exhibiting, because he’s accommodating it, opening his mouth more, letting Anton in, heedless of teeth or the chance of choking, overwhelmed by feelings he’d thought he’d excised, grown to be better than. Nietzsche on his knees, choked on cock.

Anton’s cock fills his mouth, an unaccustomed weight, an unfamiliar taste. Underneath Vincent’s knees, the sand prickles against his skin, but it’s a far away sensation compared to the deliberate intensity of what they’re doing now. Under his fingers, Anton’s hip is sharp, bone veiled under skin, but the rest of him is flexible, the way that under Vincent’s mouth, he moves, changes, adjusts, takes advantage of the angles to try to fuck Vincent’s mouth properly, thwarted by the press of Vincent’s fingers as in his own time, he decides what to take.

It doesn’t feel right. There’s nothing in all the memories that he’s retained, that says this is normal. Yet he doesn’t bite down or turn away. He just shuts his eyes against the inevitable, hollows his mouth around Anton’s cock, and listens with some measure of abstract satisfaction to the way that Anton sounds, the short ah ah of startled pleasure. If Vincent does that, he can ignore the hot shift of pleasure in his own gut, the remote bit of him that it satisfies to have dragged surrender, enough that he offers it himself, to want to hustle closer, open his mouth wider.

Anton’s pressing up now - weak kitten bucks of his hips, fingers in Vincent’s hair, tangled in his DNA, an attempt at being ruthless, to pull him closer after so many years pushing apart. Digs his other hand into the skin of Vincent’s face, the hollow bit of his skull behind his ear, a phrenologist’s dream. Feels Anton’s cock press so deep into his throat that he can’t breathe, sudden absence of air, and he’s _used_ to not breathing, but it’s usually in chlorine. He’s closer here to drowning than he ever was in the sea, objectivity wrenched away.

There’s nothing abstract now about the way he gags on Anton’s cock, the soreness in his jaw already spreading, muscles he’s never thought to use. Surfaces for air, a brief gasp, screws back down, and Anton comes helplessly, as though he’s been as starved for touch as Vincent down the years, similar in a way their parents could never have planned. He spits deliberately into the sand, salt taste in his mouth new and old both. Rests his head against Anton’s thigh for a second as Anton shudders still, one hand still grasping futilely at the back of Vincent’s skull.

Vincent’s still hard, ridiculously so, as though his erection is here at the end of it all, his body reasserts the almost unbearable truth, that no matter the discipline of the mind, the body is always the point of failure. Anton shifts under him, slower now, even less power as though he’s been drained to the point of extinction. Vincent should feel pride at that. But all he can feel is the gnawing need for more. 

“Get up,” Vincent says, and there’s something cracked about his voice, hoarse in a way he’s never heard it. “Get up and fight.”He feels five years old again, like space is a distant dream, caught once again in a net he'd thought he'd escaped.

Anton’s fingers still, but he doesn’t move. “I’m done,” he says. His eyes are closed, but not quite completely. Vincent can see a sliver of wetness catch a little light. 

“Fuck you,” Vincent says, and he’s got his hand around his own cock, ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself. Even the first time Vincent’d won, Anton had got back up. It’s wrong that he doesn’t now. They're the same building blocks, put together different ways. He knows himself, that's enough to know Anton. It's how he's beaten him. Know your enemy and Vincent knows himself from thymine to cytosine. Vincent tries to pull back, but weak as Anton's grasp is, it's still there. "Fight," he says, quieter, feels the twitch of Anton's hand. 

"Christ," Anton says, unexpected, old fashioned like something he's borrowed from a book. "Shut the hell up." But he's moving, sitting up, a puppet restringed, leaning on his elbows, looking at Vincent. "You never knew when to stop," Anton says, but for the first time it's not a jibe. 

Anton's hands are as unpracticed as Vincent knows his own mouth had been, but they're there, firm stroke down Vincent's back as though there's something there that's worth the touching. Jerks him off, fingers slipping over the wetness of his cock head, holding Vincent close. Vincent pushes against his hand, slides against the hard plane of Anton's stomach, pushes his face against Anton's neck, feels the dull flutter of his pulse under his mouth, presses his teeth against it. Doesn't leave a mark.

Afterwards, there’s nothing to be said. It feels strange. For anyone else there would be five years worth of news, stories to exchange, but Vincent doesn’t want to hear any of it. Doesn’t want to use his battered mouth to give anything more than he’s already done, words would tug at the used corners of his lips, the roughness of his throat. Everything he might need to say, has been said. If there’s anything further to be said, it’ll be new, a new date from post the apocalypse of what they’ve done together, the first time they’ve been brothers in a shared crime. 

~~

Vincent’s cheek by jowl with half a dozen other people with the same improbable dreams, Jerome’s letter tucked into his pocket, a bitter little note. There’s nothing from Anton, but he didn’t need it. They share the same blood even if it pumps through different veins, that’s all the remembrance that he requires. The battle remains still between them, unlost and unwon, the thinnest connection to earth, finer and frailer than all the ship’s radio signals, a covalent bond.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated.


End file.
